


The Medieval Practice of Falling Apart

by Macremae



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt, seriously if you are touchy about this sort of thing please don't read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: He always wondered, of course, if anyone would notice if he disappeared. The answer was given to him the moment the Mayor sentenced him to death, and only Antigone and Georgie spoke up. Of course, that whole bit worked out just fine, but it stayed with him in the back of his mind, like a poisonous fly.Or: Rudyard is (thankfully) a failure in everything he does.





	The Medieval Practice of Falling Apart

It wasn’t quite one thing that did it, as with most in documented history.

Rudyard couldn’t exactly pinpoint a single happenstance that triggered his passage over the event horizon, but once it happened, there was no going back. Maybe it was what he had for breakfast that morning (one shriveled tomato, a glass of water, and some poor imitation of tea). Maybe it was how when he looked out the window, the sky was darkening with the promise of a torrential rain, soaked to the brim with crashing thunder and lightening. Maybe it was just how his sister greeted him with a scowl when she slunk up the mortuary stairs for the first time in hours (days?), and slipped past him without so much as brushing his shoulder.

And maybe it was just because he was tired. God, Rudyard was _so tired_. He had been sleeping on a nest of blankets and one pillow the size of a scrapbook, and his back and shoulders ached from hard floors, stress, and historically terrible posture. Dark bags slumped under his eyes, burrowing into his head and squeezing against the inside of his skull. Every part of Rudyard’s body just _ached_ , from his head to his back, to his chest.

It would probably take Antigone days to find him, he mused from where he sat, legs drawn up to his chest in the cold plaster huddle of the bathtub. Rudyard dragged the knife thoughtfully along his skin, a few beads of blood springing up in it’s wake. He’d smell awful too, all that old blood and must stewing up there for days, seducing insects to splash in its depths. His body would probably be too repulsive to even embalm properly.

What would Antigone think, while preparing him? Would she feel any kind of sorrow? Certainly, she had thought about her brother getting himself killed through some stupid scheme, but had she ever imagined the cause of his death might be himself?

It probably wouldn’t even matter, he thought. She’d embalm him as she always did: artfully well, with the same care and concentration she put into everything. He would probably mess up her work schedule too. Even in death, he’d be a nuisance. God, he was so pathetic and useless and _stupidstupidstupidstupid_ -

A sharp flash of pain cut through the white noise roaring in Rudyard’s head. He had unconsciously pressed the knife down harder, the blade cutting into his skin.

 _Might as well get it over with anyway_ , he thought tiredly. Positioning the tip of the knife just below the palm of his hand, Rudyard pushed down. It sunk into his flesh, blood welling up around it. Rudyard dragged the knife down his arm, splitting the dark, horizontal lines peppering the inside in half. Blood poured out of the wound, quickly covering his arm with a red, pulsing syrup. It splashed against the side of the tub, a steady _plunk, plunk, plunk_ boring into Rudyard’s brain urging him to continue.

Dizziness beginning to creep into his head, Rudyard quickly repeated the motion down his right arm. Once done, he let the knife fall from his hand, tilting his head back onto the rim of the tub and closing his eyes. The waves of pain washed over him, and he squeezing his eyes shut tighter as fresh tears began to form. It _hurt_ , more than any other pain Rudyard had ever felt in his life.

His body began to feel light, and a fog-like feeling slithered into his brain. The pain seemed to dull, and heat crawled up Rudyard’s arms as blood dripped down his skin. His face was freezing, but his chest was on fire with warmth. The world tilted beneath him, and though his eyes were already closed, a different kind of blackness swarmed his vision. As Rudyard’s world fell away, he managed to let a soft smile grace his lips. The first in years.

\--

It did not take Antigone several days to find Rudyard’s body. In actuality, it took three minutes after he first passed out.

She had to use the restroom, of all things, and the only bathroom in the house was up on the second floor. Irked by the thought of possibly having to cross paths with her brother, Antigone silently but seethingly made her way up the stairs to the section where her and her brother slept. The bathroom door was locked, but the light was on, and without thinking about it, she rattled the lock out of place (it was broken anyway), swung the door open and stepped in.

The sight that followed sucked all the air from her lungs.

Rudyard was slumped in the bath, face pale as new milk, his arms and shirt soaked with blood. It was splattered on the sides of the tub, pouring onto his legs and feet, and pooling at the bottom in great puddles of red. Rudyard’s eyes were closed. He barely seemed to be breathing.

Antigone let out a horrified scream.

\--

What is the worst feeling in the entire world?

Maybe it’s getting that test handed back to you that you felt really good about, and seeing you got a C. Maybe it’s realizing you didn’t make the cheer squad for the first time in four years. Or maybe it’s getting broken up with, after being cheated on, by someone that you still really care about. That seems like something that would suck.

Rudyard thought he’d finally figured it out, though. Because the worst feeling in the world wasn’t any of those.

The worst feeling in the world is waking up the morning after you’ve tried to kill yourself, and realizing you’re still alive. 

It happens slowly. Your eyes open a little bit. Awareness comes back to you with the sound of the world around you, and it almost feels like a normal day. You’re tired, of course, but who isn’t with depression. There’s a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach, but you can’t really figure out why. 

And then you remember. And the real fun begins.

Your chest flips. Suddenly your heart is upside down and beating funny, and your lungs are being crushed by your ribs, which bend like warm paperclips, and your stomach clenches and shivers, because you’re body figured it out first, but now your brain knows: _you’re supposed to be dead_.

Then there’s the disappointment, rubbing the panic down into a dull roar. You failed. God, you can’t even kill yourself right. What a screwup. Why can’t you just be dead? It was going to be wonderful; everything would just fade away softly as the blood raced away from your useless body, and you would never wake up again. Why can’t it be like that?

Finally, comes the fear. You have to get up today. You have to go to work. You have to pretend that everything is normal, that everything is fine, when you just tried to end your own life before. You have to walk down the street like a person, not half of a ghost who shouldn’t even be alive. You have to keep living for a whole other day before you can come up with an new plan and try again.

Awareness came back to Rudyard slowly. His arms burned, pulsing with a dull, throbbing pain, finalized with a sharp ache, like needlepoints and salt. They felt stiff and heavy, and he felt something thick surrounding his forearms. 

His entire body felt drained and weak, like he hadn’t eaten in days. Dark shapes swam behind his eyelids, and something cold and oozing drained into the pit of his stomach. Something warm and heavy was covering him, but Rudyard still shivered, freezing.

He forced his eyes open, lids protesting as they tried to slip down heavily. A dim light swam into focus above him, searing hot into his now growing headache. The world was slightly blurred around the edges, and Rudyard realized that someone had removed his glasses.

Numbly, he realized with a growing panic that he was still alive. His brain hadn’t quite decided how yet, but this was a situation that did not seem favorable in the slightest.

Rudyard made a small noise of pain as the heat in his arms seared upward. To his right, something moved in his peripherie. A cloud of dark hair shifted forward, then a small gasp.

“Rudyard!” Antigone said breathlessly, her head flying into his line of sight. She looked a wreck- her face even more haggard than usual, her eyes framed by dark lines and red skin. She hovered near one of his hands as if afraid to touch it. “You’re- you’re awake.”

Rudyard groaned and tried to sit up, but his arms protested, and his vision swam with dizziness. Antigone made a sharp little noise and grabbed his shoulders, gently easing him back onto the bed. “You idiot, don’t try to sit up-” she began harshly, before a funny look passed over her face, and she stopped. “I mean- ah, don’t- don’t move. Please.”

Rudyard’s head was a wash of emotions at this point, but confusion worked it’s way through to the front. Licking his dry lips, he managed, “W-What?”

Antigone’s shoulders slumped, the stress in them nearly palpable. She ran a hand over her face. “You lost blood, Rudyard. About thirty per-cent of it, is my best guest. I was able to give you some of mine, since we’re the same type after all, but you’re certainly not in any state to be moving around right now. Just… relax. Please.”

There was that “please” again, haphazardly tacked on to the end of her sentence. Rudyard could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Antigone say that word to him. The oozing feeling simmered worriedly.

“I… What happened? How am I still…?” He paused, unsure of how much he could say.

“Alive?” she supplied bluntly. “Me. I used the supplies down in the mortuary to stitch both of your arms up- don’t touch them, by the way- and transfuse some blood and fluids using a makeshift IV drip. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you- I thank God embalming is truly more of a science than an art. I’ll need to change your bandages in an hour, and Dr. Edgeware should be by with some more medical supplies, but you’re fine for now.”

“You- you saved my life?”

Antigone wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Rudyard felt his lungs constrict. He couldn’t breathe. He noticed with panic that someone had removed his binder, and a sick feeling like moths under his skin began to creep up his chest. His skin felt too tight, like he almost wanted to tear it off and spread out above it, viscous and translucent. 

Antigone played with a strand of her hair. “Did you-” she began haltingly, stumbling over her words. “How- why would you- how could you-” she cut herself off, twirling the hair around in her fingers. Her throat shifted as she swallowed. “Did you not want me to find you there?”

“No.” Rudyard said simply.

“Did you ever want me to find you there?”

“Yes.”

She sighed heavily. The red rims around her eyes seemed to become more vibrant, and watery. Her chin trembled, like ash on the end of a cigarette, and she took a large gulp of air. “I’ve locked up all the knives, you know. Everything dangerous. There’s a lock on the mortuary door, and not one on yours anymore.” She looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a bed?”

“You took the mattress,” he reminded, but almost not harshly. Antigone paled further.

“Oh,” she said.

“Why did you save me?” he asked, voice tinged with a little desperation. Antigone looked startled.

“Because you’re my brother, Rudyard! You were dying! What was I supposed to do?”

Determinedly, Rudyard shuffled himself into a somewhat upright position, his arms screaming at him. “Let me die? Let me bleed out, like I’d intended to? We’ve hated each other all our lives, Antigone; why the show of sibling love now?”

She stared at him like he was an idiot. He felt an awful lot like one right now. “You were _dying_ , Rudyard. You were bleeding out right in front of me! I was- I was terrified!” He voice rose to a high shriek. “I mean, I know you were probably feeling rather awful, seeing as you just decided to kill yourself right then, but I was scared out of my bloody mind! I don’t hate you, Rudyard, and I certainly don’t want you to die!”

Rudyard turned away, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. His stomach lurched. His gaze darted around the room, landing anywhere but his sister. He realized suddenly that he was in Antigone’s room; she still had a bed and most of her bare furniture. He folded his arms across his chest, prickling at the sensation of his unbound breasts.

“How long…” he began slowly, “how long have I been asleep?”

“About a day or so,” Antigone replied. She laid her hand down on the bed a few inches away. “Rudyard- you know I’m not one to talk about this sort of… thing. But, as adults, I think… I think we should. Talk about it.”

Rudyard gave a small, bitter laugh. “What exactly is there to talk about, Antigone? I almost died. I _should_ have died. I obviously didn’t, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation, so now I suppose we’ll just… I don’t know, go back to the way things were before.”

“How?” Antigone said, he voice tilting upwards again. “Rudyard, you- you tried to- you tried to take your own bloody life! I know our lives aren’t exactly like everyone else’s, but that’s not normal! You need help!”

“Where, exactly, do you think I could get that?” he snapped. “We’re in debt up to our eyeballs, and the only doctor on the island can barely stay awake most of the time.”

She flinched a little, but he was right. Rudyard could see her eyes darting back and forth, trying to come up with a solution, but there was none. He had known that since the thought of suicide first paraded around in his head.

Sighing, Rudyard lay back down and turned away to face the wall. “There’s nothing we can do,” he mumbled, pulling the blankets over this chest.

\--

Life petered on, unfortunately, as it is wont to do.

Rudyard got out of bed the day after, and set to work making his life somewhat livable again. He scrubbed the bathtub clean of blood, then threw away the washrag the moment he was finished. Antigone had drained it, mostly, but Rudyard spent hours scrubbing every last speck of blood off the plaster surface, as if it would erase everything from ever having happened. The tub gleamed a pristine white. His memories stayed the same.

The entire kitchen was cleaned from top to bottom, both as a way to control some section of his environment, and so Antigone could find any stray knives she left behind. Then, they moved the cot she kept down in the mortuary into her bedroom, where Rudyard now slept each night. He woke often to find her sitting on the side of the bed next to him, her hand inches away from his. It drifted onto his chest, feeling it’s rise and fall, then pulled away with a sigh.

She walked on eggshells around him, choosing her words with careful caution, as if one wrong sound might shatter him to pieces. When he was awake, she never laid a hand on him, always keeping a subtle distance that was obnoxious to Rudyard’s eyes. He felt like a cheap replica of a priceless painting that everyone was convinced was real.

Antigone was afraid of him, and afraid of herself because of it, and he hated himself for that.

Georgie (bless her heart) stopped by with a bag full of Chinese takeout, and refused to disclose where she got it. The three of them sat at the worn kitchen table, silently eating their noodles and ignoring the massive elephant in the room. It was the best meal Rudyard had eaten in months, but all he could taste was styrofoam and copper. 

His body trudged along numbly, but his mind swirled constantly with a mixture of deafening white noise and raging thoughts. Every breath was a concentrated effort, his chest rising slowly like a mountain springing up from the Earth’s crust. 

The prospect of care was never brought up again until Georgie mentioned, offhandedly, that it seemed like Dr. Edgeware had experience in everything except therapy, and wasn’t that a shame, huh Rudyard?

His head snapped up from where it had been bent over papers at the kitchen table. He shook it distractedly. “Yeah, Georgie. Sure.”

“Actually…” Georgie reached into her purse from where it hung on the back of her chair. She pulled a thick stack of paper out, eyes nervous but eager. “I found a few things.”

Rudyard made wary eyes at her, so she continued, “I know there isn’t really a place for you to get help here on Piffling, so I did some research on psychiatrists in the UK. These are a couple I could find,” she said, pushing the papers across the table, “and I was thinking we could set up, like, a sort of video-chat thing now that the grid’s back on? Its not face-to-face therapy, but it’s something, right?”

Rudyard’s breath caught in his throat. A thick tightness swarmed his chest, and he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the table. “Georgie-” he began quietly, but she continued excitedly.

“These guys are really good, I promise, and, I mean, you’ve got to have someone to talk to, right? They can really help you out with your depression- at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what you’ve got- and you can-”

“Georgie,” Rudyard cut in sharply, his hands gripping the sides of his chair with white knuckles, “I’m fine.”

Georgie’s face scrunched into confusion. “I- no offense Rudyard, but you’re not. You tried to hurt yourself really badly, and you’ve been depressed as hell for as long as I’ve known you.”

He gripped the chair harder. “It doesn’t matter. I’m- I’m fine now, and I’m going to be, so there’s no point in discussing it further.”

“But Rudyard-”

“Just shut up!” he snapped suddenly, jumping up from his chair. “Just shut up, all of you! You’re acting like I’ll burst into bloody tears at the first word! You’re all walking on so many eggshells, I might as well be living in a henhouse! _Just say it_ : I tried to kill myself! I tried very hard, and, as with everything I do in life, I failed! Stop trying to ‘fix’ me, or shove me onto someone else! I’m a grown bloody man, and I can take care of myself! Yes, I’m quite obviously broken, and a mess while I’m at it, but it's not like we have the money to ‘fix’ me even if that's what I wanted. So if it really disgusts you to be around someone who wants to die so badly, I suppose I’ll just leave, shan’t I?”

Furious, Rudyard slammed his chair into the table and stalked out of the room, throwing open the front door and whirling outside in a cavalcade of anger and fear. He pushed his glasses up with his fists, rubbing at his eyes before starting down the street. 

It was the first time he had been out since the attempt. A cold, bitter wind blew through his sweater, stinging any exposed skin. Rudyard took a few steps, before a feeling crept it’s way up his neck like spider.

He turned, and saw everyone in the square had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at him.   
People _knew_.

They gawked openly, their gazes flicking to his arms, which he quickly crossed over his chest. Agatha Doyle squinted at him peevishly, before turning to whisper something into her friend’s ear. Their scrutiny pressed down on Rudyard from all sides, trapping him in a panicked circle, and he could _hear_ everyone thinking, telling the person beside them how there was Rudyard Funn, village disappointment, the man who couldn’t even kill himself right. 

Rudyard closed his eyes tightly, desperately wishing for all the whispering and white noise to stop amplifying the voices in his head. He could feel a panic attack coming on, snaking it’s way up his windpipe and squeezing. His tongue felt dry and swollen, blocking any word or breath he might try to take. 

“Rudyard?”

He felt a touch on his shoulder and jumped back, startled. His shoulders crawled up beside his ears, and he opened his eyes, feeling his stomach drop into his shoes.

It was Chapman.

He was staring back at Rudyard with wide eyes, and an arm outstretched, looking put out of place for once in his life. 

Rudyard could _feel_ tears prickling in his eyes, because _of course_ his rival was here to see him at his lowest point, yes gather round and look at your victory. You've fuckng won Eric Chapman, you perfect, sanctimonious bastard.

His breath hitched, and he felt himself trying desperately not to cry and look weak, when Chapman took a small step further and touched him gently on the shoulder.

He looked to see if Rudyard would jump back, who didn’t, but gave him a guarded stare. His whole body tensed.

Chapman surged forward and pulled Rudyard to his chest. He threw his arms around him, gripping him tightly and burying his face into the crook of his neck. Softly, Rudyard could hear him whisper, “Don’t you ever, _ever_ scare me like that again.”

Rudyard’s eyes widened, his body freezing up in shock. The breath in his throat caught, and a wet noise curled into the back. Chapman was warm against him, solid and unyielding, and Rudyard felt something inside of him snap.

He let his head fall onto Chapman’s shoulder, letting out a strange, feral noise that echoed in the shocked quiet of the square. His shoulders slumped, the ache draining out of him, and it felt like a strange, black poison was being hurled out of him with every sob. 

Half of his mind was wailing in alarm, reminding him that _he was in public for God’s sake_ what was he thinking? Everyone could see him, everyone could see them, and look at the fool of himself he was making! But the other half could feel Chapman’s tears soaking through the knit of his sweater, and intoxicating relief of being warm and protected, so Rudyard let himself crumple and break and grip onto the front of Chapman’s shirt for dear life.

He felt himself shaking when Chapman (Eric, _Eric_ , goddamnit, it was Eric) pulled away slowly, keeping one hand on him the whole time. Without speaking, he put an arm around Rudyard’s waist, and carefully led him back across the square. For a moment he stopped, giving Rudyard a questioning look. He looked towards Chapman’s the back at Rudyard tentatively, smiling a little when Rudyard just nodded and followed.

Chapman’s was empty when they entered, everyone apparently having left to see the commotion outside. Eric took them past the showroom, into the living room behind it. There was already a small fire in the fireplace, but Eric set Rudyard down on the couch, and moved to stoke it. The flames leaped, blurred a little by the tears speckled on Rudyard’s glasses. He hastily took them off and cleaned them on the hem of his sweater as Eric grabbed a blanket and presented it to him. He took it, still a little wary, and wrapped it around himself tightly.

Eric slipped into the kitchen and put a kettle on, keeping one eye on Rudyard while he watched it. He looked as if he wanted to speak several times, but always closed his mouth and thought better of it. Rudyard remained silent until the kettle began to boil, flinching a little at the noise. Eric quickly took it off the stove, pouring the water into two mismatching mugs and dropping tea bags into them. 

He set them on the coffee table before opening up a record player squished into the corner and dropping something by Bon Iver on it. The song played softly, alleviating some of the tension that had collected in the room.

The couch dipped a little under Eric’s weight, and he sat a polite distance away. Rudyard hated him for it.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully. Rudyard snorted.

“Of course I’m not alright, Chapman, I tried to slit my bloody wrists open.” he snapped.

Eric fidgeted awkwardly. “Yeah, that was a, uh, really dumb of me, sorry.”

“Yes, everyone’s fucking sorry now it seems,” Rudyard said bitterly.

"I just meant... if there’s anything I can do, ever, you'll let me know right?”

Rudyard squinted at him warily. "Why on earth would I tell _you_ of all people, Eric, you hate me more that the lot of them put together.”

“Rudyard, I _never_ hated you,” Eric said forcefully. “This rivalry, I went along with it because I thought it was what you wanted. I thought that was the role in your life you wanted me to play and I accepted that.” He smiled a little, and looked at Rudyard softly. “Besides, I know there’s at least one thing to prove you don’t hate me.”

“And just what is that?” Rudyard asked with a roll of his eyes.

“You called me Eric.”

Rudyard started at that, unable to come up with a rebuttal. He might have been about to eventually, if Antigone hadn’t burst through the back door and right into the living room.

Georgie was at her heels, their eyes wild and worried. When they saw Rudyard, all the air seemed to whoosh out of Antigone’s lungs at once.

“Where the hell were you?” Georgie asked anxiously.

“I- I went out,” Rudyard stammered, clutching his chest in shock. “Eric and I… spoke in the square, and then we went back here. What you two doing here?”

“We had no idea where you were!” Antigone spat. “We were scared out of our bloody minds! What if you had- what if you had done something again?”

Rudyard rose from the couch, the blanket falling away. He balled his hands in fists. “Is that was this is about? You just wanted to keep tabs on me all the time?”

“We want to make sure you’re _safe_ ,what else are we supposed to do?” she shrieked back, throwing her hands at him. “We were scared you would hurt yourself again! You may not believe us, Rudyard, but we care about you, and we- _I_ wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you died! Isn’t there- isn’t there anything you have to say to that?”

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, face red and pulsing heat. 

The room fell silent at that, and Rudyard felt the first few tears begin to fall. He took a shaky breath. “I- I’m sorry. I never meant to make it such a mess. I never thought that things would go this far. I- I’m just… sorry. There’s nothing else to say.”

“But,” Eric cut in for the first time, “ _why_? If this was making you so unhappy, why on Earth would you go through with it?”

Rudyard shrugged, his shoulders shaking. “I think I thought I could be part of… this. I never had this sort of thing before.” He gestured to all of them, before his gaze fell on Eric. “I never had that perfect person who somehow could see the good parts of me. The way we grew up wasn’t kind. It didn’t foster something ‘healthy’. I’m not normal- none of us are normal! And that’s not an explanation- I know there isn’t one. There isn’t anything that can make sense of… anything.”

“But, sometimes,” he continued, his voice cracking on every word now, “you see everything you wanted, and everything you wish you had- and it’s there! Right in front of you. And you want to believe it’s real. So you… make it real. And you think, maybe everybody wants it. And needs it... a little bit... too.”

Eric stood and moved to put a hand on Rudyard’s shoulder, but he brushed it away. Everything was coming out now, and he knew, he had to do this on his own, or he’d never be able to do it again. He sighed heavily, all the fight gone from his body.

“This was just a sad invention. It wasn’t real- I know. But we were… I don’t know… living? Something other than just wasting away in our awful little lives on this awful little island, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t let that go. I just wanted to believe, because if I do, then I don’t have to see what’s really there.”

“I’d rather pretend I’m something better than these broken parts- that I’m something other than this _mess_ that I am. Because then- then I don’t have to look at it, and _no one_ gets to look at it! I have to stop, before- before I make another mistake, before someone else says they're my friend and the throws me away, because- because- because-”

He was all out sobbing now, clutching at his chest as it heaved, taking in great shuddering gulps of air. Fat, shining tears slid down his face, gathering at his chin and quivering before they fell. Rudyard could barely catch a breath, it had all come pouring out in a stream of tears and new confessions. 

He managed to gather himself for one moment, enough to say, “Because… what if everyone saw? What if everyone found out? Would they like what they saw… or would they hate it too?”

Antigone moved first, stretching her arms out tentatively, then slowly bringing them around him. Then for the first time in seventeen years, his sister hugged him. 

Georgie moved in next, throwing her arms around the two of them and crushing them together. Then Eric came, joining the three of them. They stayed that way, squished and warm, for several long minutes.

They were the best five minutes of Rudyard’s life.

\--

The problem with waking up after suicide, is you never plan for the “after”.

You never plan to be alive to face the consequences of your actions, until you’re suddenly faced with them, and the realization that you now have to move on with a life you never intended to keep living in the first place. 

Rudyard eventually assented to a trial-run Skype call with a therapist Georgie had researched thoroughly (read: threatened with a ruined reputation if she didn’t turn out to be as good as she said she was). The woman was brusque, kind, and utterly clear with Rudyard that if he was really interested in recovery, there was a long, difficult road ahead of him that provided no room for whining or self pity, which, no offense intended, he possessed quite a lot of.

Everyone liked her immediately. 

Antigone started session with her some weeks later, when Georgie caught her washing her hands in the sink, and noticed the self-harming scars on her own arms. The twins began to bond again, although not necessarily over anything they’d ever thought they would.

Eric, Antigone, and Georgie took to being Rudyard’s personal pseudo-guard dogs. The first time someone had the misfortune to ask Rudyard snidely about his disappearance, he ended up in tears (Antigone), bruised (Georgie), and severely disappointed in all of his past life choices (Eric).

Georgie paid the village hoodlums twenty pounds to text her whenever they saw Rudyard alone. They used it to buy him some Mederma, and a couple of stress balls. 

Antigone and Rudyard went back to sharing a room, as they had when they were children. The attic, which was formerly cold, drafty, and covered in bits of stray string and hair, now had its walls covered by Antigone’s many attempts at therapeutic art. There was also a small stick figure in the corner, courtesy of Rudyard.

\--

They’re sat on the cliffs, sunset washing over them in pinks and orange. Georgie’s head rests in Antigone’s lap, and Eric leans against Rudyard. The waves froth against the sheer drop, spray flying up to their bare feet. It’s quiet; a rarity in their busy lives.

Eric looks up at Rudyard, whose eyes are a million miles away. He nudges his shoulder. “Hey.”

Rudyard blinks, drawing himself back to the moment. “What?”

“It’s been a year, you know. Today.”

“Oh.” Rudyard’s eyes get that faraway look again, and Antigone and Georgie glance at him nervously. It isn’t until he lifts his head a little that they see the tears falling down his face. He’s smiling.

“I didn’t think…” Rudyard says, and while he doesn’t leave much left unsaid these days, here, it’s alright. Eric sits up and puts an arm around him.

“This world is a better place with you in it, you know,” he says. Georgie nods, and Antigone reaches for his hand. Rudyard nods, crying.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”


End file.
